When You're Gone
by Talking to Bananas
Summary: Set after the characters are rescued from this island. Claire's life is stable now, but is she? Or will the pain overwhelm her? CharlieClaire oneshot. Season 3 spoilers.


**Disclaimer: **I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Lost". They were created by JJ Abrams and Damon Lindelof and they belong to them, Touchstone, and ABC.

**Well, here we go. Reviews would be appreciated. Thanks!**

* * *

The teacup shook in Claire's hand as she placed it back in its saucer. She sighed, looking around her kitchen for something to take her mind off the overwhelming pain that had just hit her. Unfortunately the small kitchen in her flat in Australia held no comfort for her. It all seemed so complacent—so normal. She couldn't help but find herself removed from the bright flowers that adorned the vase on the counter, or the dazzling yellow of the recently painted walls. They were too bright, too striking in their cheerfulness for her to comprehend. Each photo that lined the top of the refrigerator brought with it a pang of sickness in her stomach, but she still found her eyes tracing over each one in turn. 

The first was of a young Aaron, chocolate cake smeared all over his angelic face at his third birthday party. His eyes were alight and his smile was more of a mischievous gin as she scolded him from behind the camera. Claire tore her eyes from the picture; her heart felt empty at the thought that he would never know his _real_ father. She moved onto the next one, hoping to find some solace, some semblance of happiness, but her pain only intensified as she stared at it. It was a picture of her at her wedding, her brother, clean shaven for the first time in a while, stood next to her. They were both smiling, but Claire could see the unhappiness that plagued her blue eyes every time she looked in the mirror. A knot built up in her chest and her eyes began to fill with tears as guilt ripped through her. Biting her lip, she looked at the third picture, a clipping from their local newspaper. It showed her, stepping off a plane, with Aaron in her arms and the caption beneath it read: _Single mother, Claire Littleton and son, Aaron, survivors of Oceanic Flight 815_. She fought the wetness that was burning her eyes as she walked up to the picture. Fighting indecision, she spun the clasp that held the clipping in place in its frame before removing the back. Tucked neatly behind the picture was a folded piece of paper. The edges were worn and it looked as watermarked as the day it had been given to her. She closed her eyes and forced herself not to open it; her husband would be coming back soon.

Walking back over to her tea, she tried to compose herself. She forced the air in and out of her lungs slowing, blinking back tears as she did so. Crying would do nothing, she told herself, it would just cause alarm. She was so concentrated that she did not feel the arms wrapping around her waist and just barely heard her husbands voice, riddled with concern, say, "You haven't touched your tea. Is something wrong?"

It was several seconds before Claire was sure her voice was steady enough to reply, "I'm fine Thomas. Just not thirsty at the moment." In truth, she hadn't been able to drink tea since he had died. Her one true love—as she now realized he was—ripped from her in a heroic attempt to save her life. He had known it when he said goodbye; she could tell now. There was something about the clouded look in his eyes, the way that his brow crinkled when he looked at her and Aaron for what would be the last time. Years she had spent, wondering if she had said something, if she had held that kiss for one more second, if he would've stayed. She couldn't help but think that there was something she could've done, some other way that this could've happened. Aware that Thomas was still tightly entwined around her, she pushed back thoughts of what might have been and turned to face her husband. He looked at her, worry lines creasing his brow.

"You don't look okay," he stated simply. Then, looking closer at her face, he asked, "Have you been crying?"

Claire shook her head, but her brave face was jeopardized by the pools of sadness in her clear blue eyes. She knew she needed to get out, to get away from him before she broke down. Clearing her throat against the lump that had been building there, she said shakily, "I just need some fresh air."

Thomas let go of her waist and she began to head for the door. She ducked out of her house without looking back and hoping that he wouldn't follow. He didn't. Soon she was in her car, heading for a place she knew well despite the fact that she had only visited it on two occasions in the past four years. The first was one month after the plane crash. The second was after her and Thomas's honeymoon. She gunned the engine as she headed for her destination, still fighting tears that stung her eyes. All she could think of was the piece of paper sat in her pocket. It seemed to pull her down, like a weight on her soul that she could not release. And as she thought of pulling over so she could open it and relinquish its hold on her, she was suddenly at her destination.

Claire leaped out of the car, running down to the deserted beach. She had found the spot when she was younger, when things hadn't mattered as much. But it wasn't nostalgia for childhood that brought her there. The smell of the ocean was the same, the sound that it made as it crashed against the sand; it all brought back memories of another time. It was a time when she had not been alone. It was a time when she thought she could be happy. All that had changed. Her whole life had changed with the contents of the letter in her pocket.

Throwing herself down in the sand, she grasped at her last strings of composure. She squished wet sand through her toes and listened to the familiar roar of the ocean as she wrapped her arms around herself and trembled, trying to keep herself from falling apart. Slowly, her movements stiff and rigid, she pulled the paper out of her pocket. Twice she tried to open it, but her hands would not allow her to budge the heavy paper. Finally, she unfolded it. As she read the words printed in black sharpie, she allowed the tears to flow at last. They fell wet and thick from her cheeks onto the paper she was holding. The grief twisted its way through her chest, and each surge of pain brought with it a sob.

Suddenly, anger seized her. Heat surged through her and she jumped to her feet, confronting some unknown presence. Her hands clenched into fists and she shouted and the dark ocean, "Why'd you do it Charlie? Why'd you leave me? It didn't have to be like this. _I_ didn't have to be like this. My son can't have a peanut butter sandwich because it hurts me too much. I can't see a Driveshaft poster without bursting into tears. And I can't be a god wife to Thomas; my husband, Aaron's father. Not while I'm still in love with you…_I'm still in love with you._ You could've stayed. We'd all be together now." She looked down at the paper clenched tightly between her fingers. The wind whipped her blond hair around sent shivers down her spine. The ocean waves continued to crash, relentless, unknowing of her outburst. As the wind tugged harder and harder, she whispered, "I guess we'll never be together now." Her fingers relaxed. The list of her love's greatest moments slipped from her hand and floated out over the ocean on the breeze as she said, "Goodbye, Charlie."


End file.
